


Hic Sunt Dracones

by ElDiablito_SF



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers Series - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: A wee bit of smuttiness, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, Lots of Ridiculousness, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 12:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20778236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: Athos and Aramis meet in the middle of a cat rescue: a farcical romcom ensues.Based onthis important real life video adventure.





	Hic Sunt Dracones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Donna_Immaculata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/gifts).

> First, I am dedicating this to Donna, who should've co-authored it with me! She is responsible for showing me the cat video as well as the brilliant brainstorming session that followed. She is really a co-parent of this fic.
> 
> Second, I would like to offer a sincere apology to Dignitas, Swiss police, Swiss customs, and really the entire country of Switzerland. We did not mean to malign you, it's just that Aramis' perfect job only currently exists in Switzerland, so really there was nothing else we could've done ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Third, we enjoy The Three of Them most when they're a little bit evil, like in canon.
> 
> And finally: to those (four) of you who are ACTUALLY going to read this - I love you and I've missed you <3

The road from Montreux to Gruyères was neither a particularly difficult nor a particularly long one. Certainly it was a road that a man could circumnavigate successfully without too many obtrusive trees or suicidal pedestrians getting into the way of one’s vehicle. It was a road that a man could travel, in other words, without being entirely sober. In truth, Athos wasn’t certain whether the buzzing in his head was a poorly mitigated hangover or a mere leftover from the night before. It was, he had to admit, entirely possible that he was still at least partially drunk. Especially by Swiss standards.

Of course, if he blew above 0.5 there was always the possibility of slipping the good officer a bribe, and if the officer in question turned out to be one of those rarities who took great umbrage at being monetarily compensated for their good work, Athos wouldn’t mind too much spending a night in jail. He could always call Porthos.

He could call Porthos preemptively. Athos rummaged in the inner pocket of his jacket for his mobile phone. It was lodged in there somewhere, deeper than one would have anticipated (perhaps if one had anticipated being possibly not entirely sober for the drive home). But needs must, and in his case, it was best to get out of Montreux before the police were summoned to the bar where he had spent the night getting thoroughly and utterly obliterated. He would be out of Porthos’ jurisdiction in Montreux, and well, after that boating incident in Lausanne, Athos didn’t want to take anymore chances.

The phone refused to come out of the pocket, so Athos swore, lifting his eyes back to the road, just in time to spot a flash of orange in the middle of the asphalt ahead of him. “What the fuck!” he exclaimed, downshifting the gears of his Maserati Quatroporte so fast that the ensuing sounds hurt his very soul. Swerving to the curb, the car came to an erratic halt, tires singing a dolorous tune as they ground to a stop, the noxious fumes of the burning rubber portending another expense soon to be incurred.

“Jesus Christ,” Athos muttered, swinging open the door, eyes scanning the road with trepidation, hoping to not see a horrific murder occuring before his slightly numb face. And there it was, a ball of orange fur, cowering in the middle of the road, just where he had originally spotted it.

“Nooooo!!!” came a horrified cry out of the morning mist.

Athos staggered back against his vehicle. Like an apocalyptic horseman, a motorcyclist came roaring out of the mist, pulling quickly over onto the same bank where Athos had so gracelessly parked his own vehicle. The sound of leather boots hitting the pavement brought Athos at least temporarily to his senses.

“No!” the rider of the apocalypse cried again as he appeared, now dismounted, before Athos’ gaze. A leather-clad form, all in black, helmet still firmly hiding the rider’s face, sped past Athos, a tall figure blocking the ongoing traffic with both arms outstretched, like a dark preacher attempting to convert the gathering masses.

“What the actual fuck,” Athos whispered under his breath, taking in the wide shoulders, and the incredibly pert ass that was all sorts of complimented by the soft leather of the man’s riding gear. Beneath the appetizing rump, Athos could make out two very shapely thighs, attached to a pair of legs that seemed to go on for days.

Did he also drop acid last night? Athos could not exactly recall.

Before Athos could make up his mind about his road rescuing priorities - the hot piece of leather-clad ass versus the tiny ball of fur - the unknown rider bent over, glorious ass kissing the morning mist, and scooped the critter out of harm’s way, running back to the bank where Athos still gaped at him.

“Awww, you pretty little baby, what are you doing in the middle of the road!” a mellifluous voice cooed.

Before Athos could even open his mouth to protest being addressed in such a way, the ball of fur was thrust before his eyes, and he finally had confirmation that his instincts had not deceived him. It had been a tiny ginger kitten, with eyes so big and terrified that Athos had a distinct feeling of looking upon Puss in Boots from the _Shrek_ movies suddenly come to life.

“You’re so cute!” the rider went on. “Yes, you are! Yes, you are! What do you think he was doing there in the middle of the road, huh?”

Athos blinked. Then he reached into his jacket pocket again and was able to successfully produce a mint, which he quickly popped into his mouth before muttering, “I’m… err…” very eloquently.

“You know, I’m terribly allergic to cats,” the voice continued from the behind the opaque glass of the helmet. Athos looked down, to admire the long legs from the front, as well as other sights that happened to lie open to his stupefied gaze. “Here, you take him!”

“Erm?”

Athos extended his hands just in time to receive a bundle of soft, barely squirming fur. The kitten was warm and its claws dug into Athos’ skin like tiny talons. Athos said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t pee on him.

“Pretty baby,” the voice continued to coo, “Daddy will take good care of you, won’t you, daddy? I would take him myself, but as I said, the allergy… And besides, a bike is really no place to transport such a little… Oh, you’re so soft! You’re so cute!”

“Yes, very cute,” Athos managed, admiring the way the leather jacket pulled tightly across the rider’s pecs.

“Thank you very much, Sir!” the rider said with far too much alacrity for the time of morning. “You have a great day now!”

Athos watched as the best ass he’s seen in years receded into the mist. The motorcycle revved its engine, and just like a phantom once more, disappeared into the distance.

Athos stared down at the cat with distinct apprehension. The cat stared back, equally horrified.

“Um… hey,” Athos said, gently stroking the little pointy earsies with his fingers. “I guess you’re coming home with me?”

***

The face of Athos’ majordomo loomed before him with antediluvian judgement, as he pulled the car into his garage roughly fifteen minutes past the peculiar encounter that left him feeling vaguely dissatisfied and confused on a number of levels.

“Here - feed it,” Athos shoved the ball of trembling fur into Grimaud’s surprised hands. “And have my car cleaned, it peed all over the seats.”

Athos wiped his hands on his own trousers, doubtlessly aware of spreading tiny feline urine particles all over himself. Grimaud’s face fluctuated through the gamut of complex emotions the poor domestic tried in vain to suppress as he held the kitten aloft.

“Feed it, Sir? What am I supposed to do? Give it to one of the cheese cows to rear?”

“You’ll figure it out, Grimaud,” Athos shrugged. “Don’t forget about the piss, then.”

“The last thing I expected, Sir, was for you to bring home pussy.”

“Very funny.”

Grimaud peeked underneath the ball of fur with the look of a connoisseur. “Mazel tov, Master, it’s a boy!”

Athos paused in the doorway framed with begonias, momentarily overcome with emotion, or possibly a fresh wave of nausea. The boisterous festivities of the prior night were clearly intending to catch up with him, sooner or later. The kitten fixed him with those sad, soulful eyes, and let out a pathetic mewl, possibly indicative of either an apology for the pee of the immediate past or condolences for the vomit of the impending future. Athos had a desire to snuggle him, kiss him, and tell him it was all going to be alright, despite their questionable beginnings.

Later.

“God dammit, Grimaud,” Athos exhaled, doing his best to keep the influx of vomit away, “my son is adorable!” Then, he ran to the nearest toilet.

***

Athos awoke to the sensation of being watched. He had half-expected Grimaud to dump a bucket of water in his face, which he would take like a man. He braced himself for silent scorn and opened one bleary eye. His bedroom was empty and thankfully no longer spinning. Still, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that his hair was… softly purring. He gingerly reached up into the tangled mop that had become his coiffure and pulled a hissing ball of fur out of it.

“Son?” Athos frowned. “You better not have peed all over my head.” The kitten emitted a tiny meep of indignation and Athos almost felt ashamed. “I wouldn’t blame you, young man,” he said, setting the kitten into his lap. “That was quite the ordeal you went through, out there on the road. All those cars passing right over you.” The kitten stared at him with huge eyes. “I know, you’re a very brave boy,” Athos said, stroking his fingers along the ginger fur. “You’re very soft,” he added. “You can’t just sleep on my head though, it’s just not done.”

“Your progeny disagrees,” Grimaud’s voice cut in.

“Knock before you enter!” Athos groused, if only by sheer habit.

“He was insistent that your head was precisely the proper place for him. There was nothing I could do to dissuade him,” the impertinent butler continued.

“Like you even tried!”

Grimaud pressed his hand to his heart in a dramatic gesture. “I’m hurt, Master.”

“Why are you here, pest?”

“You’ve been asleep for a while, Sir, and I started to worry you might have passed on.” Athos rolled his eyes at this convincing display of concern. “Furthermore, I’m afraid there’s a _person_ here to see you.”

Athos rubbed his eyes and attempted to get up. It appeared he had never bothered to remove his trousers, which blessedly looked to be vomit-free, and the kitten slid down his lap until his claws found purchase in the material clinging to his thigh, right above the knee.

“Tenacious little bugger,” Grimaud noted with admiration.

“Can you please be useful and get me a shirt?” Athos begged, running his fingers through his tangled curls in a futile attempt to make his hair look presentable.

“Why?”

“So I can go speak to this _person_.”

“You’re fine as you are, Master. It’s not as if your visitor is dressed in his Sunday best.”

“So it is a male visitor, then?”

“What self-respecting woman would come to see you, Sir? And _here_ of all places?”

Grimaud had made the Gruyères get-away sound like a den of iniquity, instead of the bucolic château that it actually was. It certainly wasn’t the finest mansion owned by Athos’ family, but nor was the shabbiest. Of course it was rather out of the way for, well, everyone, which was why Athos had chosen it as his hermitage after the Embarrassment had been discovered, prompting him to go into a self-imposed retreat.

“Are you seriously not going to tell me who it is, you blistering pain in my arse?” Athos snarled as he splashed some water into his face and gargled for a perfunctory moment with his mouthwash.

“I don’t know, Sir!” Grimaud spread his arms out in a gesture of angelic innocence. “The gentleman caller did not present me with his calling card. So I left him out in the yard.”

“Well, that’s rude.”

“He might be a murderer. Sir. Or worse.”

“What’s worse than a murderer?” The kitten slid down his leg, only to scramble back up, as if scaling a tree.

“A missionary.”

Athos snorted, the remnants of the mouthwash sending tendrils of mint into his nostrils. “All right, let’s take a look at this missionary murderer of yours,” he said, and proceeded to shuffle, cat-attachment and all, down the stairs where the light of the setting sun streamed through the partially open windows.

He opened the heavy door and immediately leaned into it for support. It couldn’t be. But he’d recognize that leather-clad ass anywhere. He allowed his eyes to travel upwards and downwards, reassuring himself that the broad shoulders, slim waist, and delectable thighs were still just as appetizing as he remembered them, and finally found his eloquence.

“Um… hey.”

The man turned around to face him and Athos nearly swooned from an overabundance of aesthetic feeling. He wasn’t wearing the helmet anymore and, well, Grimaud had been right - Athos could definitely cut himself and bleed to death on those cheekbones.

“Oh good, I found you!” His visitor said with the same alacrity he exhibited during their first encounter. If he was in any way put out by Athos’ dishabille or the cat clinging to his thigh, he didn’t show it, taking a steady step forward and shoving something heavy into Athos’ arms. “I brought cat food! And ginger ale. The ginger ale is for you, obviously. I thought you could use it. Can I come in?”

At close quarters, a few things became very clear to Athos. First, the man’s lips were so luscious that Athos would never be able to stop thinking horrible filthy thoughts about them. Second, his eyes were as black as the night, and Athos never wanted to stop looking into them. And third, there was no way he would ever be able to say ‘No’ to this guy, even if he had turned out to be a missionary murderer after all.

“Oh there you are, little buddy!” the vision in leather had zeroed in on the cat and bent over to pet him, stroking Athos’ thigh in the process as well.

“Um…” Athos managed. “How the fuck? And who the fuck are you?”

It was probably not the best way to woo anyone, even someone who was inadvertently petting one’s thigh. Nevertheless, it wasn’t that different from the modus operandi he had deployed with the last person he’d tried to woo, and unfortunately that little escapade had ended in marriage.

“I’m Aramis,” the man said, gently shouldering his way inside. This explained nothing, but Athos still found himself moving aside and closing the door behind them both. “And you’re Athos, or so I’m told. I’d shake your hand but you’re holding cat food.”

“Because you just gave it to me,” Athos pointed out.

“I’ll take that, Master, thank you,” Grimaud shimmied past them both, relieving Athos of at least some of his burdens for the time being.

“Now you can shake my hand,” Aramis pointed out with a wide grin. He extended his open palm towards Athos, who immediately noted the man’s glove size (large), and clasped Athos’ hand in a warm handshake that was just a few moments longer than decorum strictly allowed. “And how - well, we have a friend in common. Porthos? On the police force? He told me where you lived.”

Reluctantly, Athos let go of the man’s hand. “But how did you know who I was?”

“I clocked your license plate on my Go-Pro.”

“Your what now?”

“The camera I had attached to my helmet?”

“So you… what? You reviewed that footage? And stalked me?”

“I felt terrible not knowing what happened to our little furry rescue there,” Aramis winked at the cat. The cat jumped off of Athos’ thigh and did a few figure eights around Aramis’ legs. Fickle creature. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t abandon you all alone to care for him. Single parenting isn't for everyone. And besides, I could tell you were a little worse for wear this morning.”

“I’m not usually…” Athos stammered. “It was just…”

“Happens to the best of us.”

“I’m not the best of us,” Athos shrugged. He was suddenly painfully aware that his nipples had hardened. The rest of him couldn't be far behind.

“That remains to be seen,” Aramis smiled cryptically.

“Would the gentleman like some tea?” Grimaud asked most solicitously, appearing out of nowhere with an overflowing tray.

“That would be lovely!” Aramis’ face lit up.

“And this gentleman would like a shirt,” Athos hissed at his butler.

“Truly, you’re fine as you are,” Aramis replied with a wicked glimmer in his dark eyes. Athos was fucked. Or hoped to be. Either way, there would be some kind of a Fuckening, one way or another.

Athos crumbled into one of the armchairs as Aramis joined him across the small table that Grimaud set up with lightning speed. The cat clawed at his shin, so Athos gave him a lift into his lap again.

“I have named him Son,” Athos finally announced. It wasn’t his finest salvo, as far as conversations went, but he was already very much out of his depth here.

“It suits him,” Aramis said with one of his smiles. “I must apologize for the presumption I’ve made in coming here. It’s just that - you see - I’m a doctor. I like to help people. And you seemed a bit like you could use my help. With the cat, I mean. And perhaps the other thing as well?”

“Mmm,” Athos said. The man’s lips were moving, all right, but everything else was just… jawline… and mouth… and a surprisingly pearlescent set of teeth.

“Do you mind if I take your pulse? You can learn a lot about a man’s condition just by taking his pulse.” Long fingers wrapped around Athos’ wrist. “How strong it is, how deep it is, how fast, how slow…”

“Where did you say you worked again?” Athos asked, mostly for politeness.

“I didn’t.” Aramis held his wrist attentively, fingers warm and gentle against the pulse point. “But I will tell you, since I so rudely intruded upon your solitude. I work at Dignitas.”

“The place rich Brits go to die?”

“It’s not just Brits,” Aramis said while Grimaud poured his tea. “And it’s a very beautiful, peaceful place, where you can prepare for your final journey. We provide only the finest care to those who have very little left to care for in the world.”

“You… You euthanize people?” Athos said, petting the cat more fervently.

“I provide last rites and sacraments to them as well. I’m a one stop shop, really. It’s all very dignified, I assure you. I take my work very seriously. To provide comfort and mercy to those less fortunate, is to do the Lord’s work. Brioche?”

“Yes thanks,” Athos muttered, licking his lips. His eyes had finally dared to stray beneath the jawline to admire the long line of his guest’s neck, which stood out in pale contrast to the perfectly curled black tresses that framed Aramis’ head. “So,” he swallowed, allowing his eyes to pause at the spot where Aramis’ leather jacket had come unzipped, revealing a tantalizing flash of chest, “You kill people for a living?”

“You make it sound so base!” his guest protested earnestly. “I help them to die! I am an angel of mercy!”

Athos bit violently into the brioche. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said with his mouth still full.

The conversation finally turned to cats, or what little they both knew of them. Athos vaguely remembered Aramis claiming a terrible allergy, but it did not appear to be an issue so long as the cat was safely ensconced in Athos’ lap, or otherwise Athos-adjacent, in which case Aramis seemed to have no problems petting him and going as far as putting his entire face into the kitten’s fur to tell him what a pretty boy he was. It was an allergy most peculiar, indeed.

They parted amicably enough, with Athos never having the opportunity to get fully dressed and Aramis exacting permission to come visit the cat whenever he wished before disappearing in a cloud of leather and expensive aftershave.

Athos looked a bit helplessly at his receding form as the motorcycle once again dissipated into the distance, while Son sat right on top of his foot as if it were his throne.

“Well, Master!” Grimaud’s snickering voice cut through the silence. “So, you’ve managed to pull a doctor, eh? Who would’ve thought!”

Athos opened his eyes, trying to shake various prurient thoughts that battled each other for dominion over his brain ever since Aramis showed up on his doorstep. “He’s a DOCTOR?”

Athos blinked. There had been the weirdly intimate wrist holding and the casual thigh petting and the strangely arousing quasi-religious mumbo-jumbo, but…

“Weren’t listening much, were you?” Grimaud hummed. “Mr Crotch took over for Mr Brain again, did it?”

The kitten meowed in confirmation and Athos felt entirely ganged up against. “Traitor,” he mumbled and went to look for the cat treats.

***

Athos had become friends with Porthos the first time the officer had tried to arrest him. Athos had been, admittedly, younger and possibly stupider, although it was hard to tell whether it had been the years that had mellowed him, or simply the removal of his person from the proximity of quite so much trouble. There had been far too much booze, too much loud bass, and not nearly enough light in the place, so when Athos had kissed the guy and didn’t realize he was kissing a Brit, the ensuing brawl was practically out of his control. What would people say if they thought he went around kissing Brits? What would his _family_ say? It would’ve been a disaster!

All this Athos patiently explained to the arresting officer, who was so amused by the time the bribe even came up that he had somehow forgotten to act offended.

“Look, it’s fine if you need to throw me in the can overnight,” Athos had said, smiling apologetically, “I really don’t want to put you in an awkward position. I’d just really appreciate it if you didn’t mention the whole… British thing. My tongue still burns.”

Athos’ family was sitting on a mountain of gold of questionable provenience, but that didn’t mean he had to forgo all _standards_.

“Come with me,” the arresting officer had said, putting Athos with a surprising amount of care into the back of his car. When they were far enough away from the other police lights and the bustling of nightlife, he’d pulled over, turned to his prisoner and extended a large paw. “I’m Porthos. Where would you like me to drive you tonight, Monseigneur?”

“You’re not taking me to jail?” Athos asked, disappointment evident in his expression.

Porthos laughed and shifted his car into gear. They had spent the evening getting shitfaced together at an undisclosed location. Porthos did take his money, and he never did act offended.

Perhaps then, it had not come as a surprise that Porthos had been friends with the Angel of Death, and even less of a surprise that he had disclosed Athos’ hideout to this so-called “doctor” person. Athos frowned as he swiped the call function on his phone.

“Porthos,” his friend picked up. “How may I protect and serve you?”

“Man, what do you even _know_ about this guy!” Athos exploded without a preamble.

“I know he’s your type, old man,” Porthos guffawed into the receiver. “So, did ya? Did ya?”

“Did I, did I, what exactly?”

“You knooooow,” Porthos drawled out. “I don’t want to be crude, not with Your Highness.”

Athos scowled at the phone. “_What?_”

“He is definitely not British, I can tell you that. Now are you gonna?”

“You’re serious?” Athos sounded scandalized. “You truly expect me to bone the first guy who shows up at my house who’s not fucking British?”

“You gotta admit, buddy old pal, it’s been a long time. Captain Rocket must be feeling lonely.”

“Please, for the love of everything, stop making up names for my dick. It’s creepy.” Athos shuddered.

“Understood,” Porthos intoned ruefully. “But anyways, I’ve known Aramis for years. Super nice bloke. He pays me to look the other way when certain people drop dead inconveniently at that Dignitas place.” Athos was about to interrupt to say that he thought that was the entire point of Dignitas, but decided to let the monologue continue. “I heard he had quite the way with the ladies.” Here Athos once again wanted to cut in to ask if ladies had a way of dropping dead around Aramis. “But then I also checked out his biker gear, and you know, had my suspicions. He’s into you, right?”

“He’s into my _cat_,” Athos snorted.

“When the hell did you get a cat?” Now it was Porthos who sounded truly scandalized. “Always figured you for a dog person myself. What with your trust issues and bad luck with the puss.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. He was just _there_ in the middle of the road and then this hot guy just _handed_ him to me and was all ‘You have a great day now!’ Honestly, I don’t even know what the hell happened.” Athos paused and looked down between his feet from where the ball of fur stared at him with those terrified eyes. “He’s fucking cute though.”

“Aramis? It’s true.”

“No! I mean, yes, him too. Do you want to come over and meet my Son?”

Porthos’ laughter could be heard with deafening clarity from the phone speaker. “Man, what kinda drugs did you do when you were down in Montreux? Wait, don’t tell me, I’m a municipal police officer.”

Athos shrugged even though Porthos couldn’t see him. “He’s really soft,” he explained. “Sometimes he likes to sit on my shoe.”

“Jesus Christ, you need a new lover.”

“God, you’re a fucking yenta.”

“You know, man, I’m not sure what’s more embarrassing: _this_ or finding out your wife was a fucking…”

“Shut it!” Athos interrupted. “And anyways, I won’t have you talking about my Son this way.”

Something shuffled on the other end of the line, as if Porthos had been moving cardboard boxes. “All right, man, I’ll come check your cat out tonight. Christ, I can’t believe I just said that outloud.” Porthos sighed, doubtlessly lamenting his friend’s indecorous slide into cat-ladyhood. “Just seized a shitload of some primo weed though. I’ll bring some over, take the edge off. If you’re not gonna get your dick wet at least…”

Athos hung up.

***

“I brought Son some toys!” Aramis brandished a satchel and shoved it under Athos’ nose. “And there are some Zinc and Vitamin D supplements for you.”

Athos took a cautious peek inside the bag and motioned Aramis towards the sitting room. “And what did I do to deserve such a bounty this time?” As far as Athos could tell, he was not at the moment drunk.

“I could tell you were deficient when I took your pulse.”

Athos raised a skeptical eyebrow at that.

“I also received training in Eastern Medicine,” Aramis explained sitting on the couch and petting the seat next to him. Athos wasn’t sure it that was meant for him or the cat, but he sat down there nevertheless. Son could suffer. “I believe it is a practitioner’s duty to treat the patient holistically.”

“Even if you’re going to kill them?”

“Especially then,” Aramis grinned.

“So, you could read all my… deficiencies… just by taking my pulse?” Athos asked, averting his eyes and busying himself with taking out the mouse on a string from the bag.

“Not exclusively,” Aramis replied. “But then again, I didn’t exactly feel comfortable asking you to show me your tongue the first time I invited myself to your house.”

“My tongue?”

“Yes. Do you mind?” Aramis leaned in. “Might as well be thorough.”

Despite his better judgement, Athos found himself opening his mouth and unrolling his tongue. Perhaps part of Aramis’ holistic training had also included hypnotism, because Athos was damned if he knew why he couldn’t behave himself like a man with his own will in the good doctor’s presence.

“Fascinating!”

“Really?”

“Yes, your tongue is very long.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Nothing, it is merely an observation.”

Athos was pretty sure the guy was just taking the piss now.

“Your liver is in remarkably good health,” Aramis added, as if taking pity on him. Son’s head chose that moment to poke out from under the couch. He sniffed at Aramis’ shin and proceeded to rub his rump against their guest’s ankle. “There’s our good boy!”

Athos meanwhile took note of the fact that his visitor had not been wearing his get-up of biking leathers from their first encounter. Instead, he wore shorts. Rather short ones, even by European standards. Well, this wasn’t going to help matters a bit, was it? As if catching the trajectory of his gaze, Aramis also looked down at his own exposed legs and then threw one jauntily over the other.

“You’ll forgive my informal attire. I thought it would be best not to get his hair all over my going out slacks.”

“Ah,” Athos replied. He was beginning to unravel how this “allergy” actually worked. Aramis was allergic to having cat hair all over his expensive clothes. And doubtlessly the nice upholstery of his sure-to-be fashionable abode. He motioned for Grimaud to bring in the drink tray and reclined back into the cushions, watching the young doctor with a bemused gaze.

Aramis’ fingers brushed his own as he took the toy from his hand. “May I? Here kitty!” And the mouse bounced along the rug, sending the kitten into a flying frenzy.

Athos poured them both two fingers of laphroaig and sat back watching the interaction with growing amusement. He could do this. Now that his head was clear, he’d be able to navigate this… whatever this was… with a better chance of success.

“So,” he said pensively, “Porthos tells me you’re quite the ladykiller.”

"Only the incredibly old or incurably ill ones, I assure you!" Aramis exclaimed with a becoming blush. Athos puffed out a burst of laughter and sipped his drink. “And what about you? I heard you were a bit of a ladykiller yourself.”

“That was an accident!” Athos choked out.

“What?”

“What?” Athos took a bigger gulp of his drink. So much for thinking himself clear-headed.

“Didn’t you…” Aramis looked around. “... used to have a wife?”

“Mmm?” Athos gargled into his laphroaig.

“I seem to recall something in the news about it,” Aramis went on. “When was this? Less than a year ago, was it? A big ado, by local standards. All the Swiss beaumonde assembled for your nuptials?”

“Yes… That… Well…” Athos trailed off. The cat had grown tired of the mouse and was now attempting to sharpen his clawsies on Aramis’ calves.

“None of that, you beast!” The cat hissed. Aramis hissed back. “You little ingrate!”

Athos laughed, the Embarrassment forgotten for the time being. He was hoping the other man wouldn’t press it. Not that Aramis didn’t have other methods of finding out. Asking Porthos, for example, appeared to still be on the table. It would be best to steer the conversation into safer waters, like the expert mariner that he was.

“He likes you,” Athos said, scooping the kitten into his own lap. At least he had Grimaud to get cat hair out of all his clothes. He wondered idly whom Aramis had. A maid? A bevy of maids? Perhaps even a rich crone in the mix?

“Does he? Hm…” Aramis said, unconvinced. “He has a funny way of showing it.”

“I don't know much about cats," Athos admitted. "I suppose at some point we’ll need to take him to a vet? Make sure he’s had all his shots and what not? Maybe have him neutered?”

Aramis cocked his head to the side, his eyes intently fixed upon the ball of fur in Athos’ lap. “It certainly is interesting the way we choose to show our affection sometimes. Cutting off one’s balls as a sign of ownership. Seems barbaric.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine anyone’s ever tried to neuter _you_, Aramis.”

“Tried? Perhaps. Succeeded? Clearly not.”

There was something dangerous in the way Aramis said those words, his black eyes lighting up with a playful flame as he leaned closer.

“It’s for their own good, or so I’m told,” Athos said with quiet intent. Something about the way Aramis was looking at him felt as if he was about to be asked about his marriage again. “We would not wish to have him hump everything in sight once he hits puberty.”

“Boys will be boys,” Aramis shrugged.

“I am told that is a rather outdated concept,” Athos mused. Aramis did not disagree, only continued to look at him in a way which normally Athos would’ve interpreted as predatory. Were it not for all those ladies Aramis was such a hit with. “So, I was thinking…” he began again cautiously. “Should I have some way to contact you? You know, in case something happens to Son? You’re practically a vet, right?”

Aramis appeared to contemplate this with an inscrutable look. “Well, I suppose I can put him to sleep in a humane and responsible way, if all else fails,” he finally said. “Let me give you my number.”

Aramis excused himself about half an hour later, having tested out several of the new toys on Son, who still preferred the mouse on a string best. The sound of the tires of Aramis’ car (which explained the shorts) pulling out along the gravel road confirmed the man’s departure. Athos checked his phone, scrolling through the contacts to make sure the number was actually there and not gone by some sleight of hand. Athos smiled as he walked up the stairs, Son scampering after him, intrepidly hopping one stair at a time. He could hear the plaintive sounds of a familiar aria from Verdi’s _Jerusalem_ echoing from the library, where his pest of a majordomo must have been entertaining himself at his expense.

_Ange, vers qui s’envole mon rêve d’espoir! _  
_Ah, bel ange, mon idole, je veux encor te voir! _  
_Je veux encor, je veux encor te voir!_

***

Athos was coming back with a fresh pack of cards and a freshly imported bottle of Casa Dragones tequila when Porthos’ booming voice reached his ears.

“Son, you are very small, but intrepid!”

“He does seem to enjoy playing little games with death,” Aramis’ voice purred in response.

Athos put the bottle on the nearby console and took two long strides into the middle of the room to see what his two companions had been talking about.

“Fucking hell, Porthos!” he exploded. “You’re letting him play with a _gun_?”

“It’s not loaded!” Porthos threw up his hands in defense before Athos bludgeoned him to death with the nearest heavy object.

“It’s not, I checked the chamber,” Aramis confirmed in dulcet tones.

“Oh, well, thank you, _doctor_!”

“You say that like it’s an insult,” Aramis shrugged. “You’re welcome, _heir to a sketchy fortune._”

Athos picked the kitten up from the middle of the coffee table and placed him inside his own shirt, to keep him safe from his idiotic so-called “friends.” Son was coming apace nicely, his lithe body elongating into a gracefully slinky predator that Athos knew he was meant to be. He still acted skittish sometimes, and continued to insist on sleeping on top of Athos’ head, but other than that, human-feline relations were thriving. Even Grimaud secretly adored him, although he would certainly never admit so out loud.

After a few soothing strokes along the soft pelt, Athos felt his own blood pressure return to normal and he sat down in between Aramis and Porthos, producing the fresh pack of cards from his back pocket. Porthos reached for the bottle of tequila, and the mood returned to what passed for normal when the three of them got together.

It had only happened a few times before and each time at Porthos’ insistence. He said he was a busy man who could not afford to split his social obligations when there was occasion to combine them, an excuse Athos accepted willingly enough, especially since it gave him plausible deniability with Aramis. Whom he tried very hard not to text every day, even if his communication was mostly comprised of emojis such as a cat and thumbs up. Aramis, luckily, was a lot more effusive in his responses, asking Athos if the tip of his tongue was red (apparently a sign of inflammation) and whether the whites of his eyes were turning yellow (figure that one out yourselves). Athos had attempted to call him a mother hen using only emojis but Aramis had interpreted that as “pregnant cock,” which, in fairness, was as good an interpretation as any.

Porthos poured the drinks while Aramis shuffled the cards. That Casa Dragones was going to go down smoothly, Athos suspected. It was well worth the customs bribes he had to pay to get several boxes of it imported from Mexico.

“Strip poker?” Porthos suggested.

“Why on earth would we do that?” Athos frowned, shifting a bit where he sat to avert an inadvertent reaction below the belt.

“Well, you have so much money, it would be totally meaningless to play against you,” Porthos said.

“The _officer_ makes a valid point,” Aramis mewled.

Athos cast him an askance look. The doctor looked about as ready to let that one go as Son when he played with that mouse on a string.

“But it would be _very_ meaningful if we all took off our pants?” Athos asked.

“Are you going to poop this party?” Porthos frowned. “Because I can take out the handcuffs.”

Aramis snorted. “Great idea, put him in restraints, that way he will _definitely_ not enjoy himself.”

Athos flushed crimson, wondering whether this little tidbit of information was something Aramis gleaned from taking his pulse or looking at his tongue.

“Shut up and deal, smartass,” he mumbled, petting the ball of fur that snuggled peacefully under his chin.

The first game was painfully close, with Porthos beating Athos’ straight with a full house, while Aramis folded early with an amused look on his face.

“Haha, you lose! Take off your pants!” Porthos bellowed, throwing down his hand and chasing it with a large shot of the tequila.

“I never staked pants!”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport. Off with your pants!” Porthos insisted.

“You’re so weird,” Athos shook his head but unbuckled his belt and let his trousers slide down his legs. He wasn’t trying to look, but he could definitely feel Aramis’ gaze on him, taking his measure, probably deducing his blood type from the way the hair curled along his thighs. He wouldn’t put it past him, anyways.

“Loser deals,” Aramis reminded him and handed the cards over. Athos tried not to linger when their fingers brushed at the pass off.

Athos dealt. Along with his dignity, he also appeared to have lost the cat, who decided he needed a more exciting lap to curl up in and shuffled over towards Aramis. Athos hoped he would shed on him and his white trousers. A lot.

In the meantime, Porthos had refilled everyone’s glasses except his own, and settled back into the armchair, examining his hand with the look of a connoisseur.

“Fold,” Athos said, throwing his hand down in disgust. Figured that he would deal himself short.

“You truly have no sense of adventure,” Porthos muttered. “Aramis?”

“I will raise you my shirt,” Aramis said.

“I will see your shirt and raise you my jeans,” Porthos replied.

“You’re both idiots,” Athos said.

“Two please,” Aramis said to Athos, disposing of two cards from his hand.

“And I’ll just take the one,” Porthos added as Athos dealt out the other cards.

“I will see your bottoms and raise you my shoes,” Aramis announced.

“Bold move,” Athos laughed.

“Call,” Porthos grinned dangerously.

Aramis batted his lashes and coyly splayed out four queens on the coffee table. “Read ‘em and weep, nudist.”

“Ah, but Monsieur, I believe it is _you_ who are the nudist,” Porthos retorted, laying out an ace after an ace upon the coffee table until all four aces stared Aramis in his distraught face.

“You cheated!” Aramis exclaimed.

“How dare you!” Porthos pressed his hand to his heart. “I am an officer of the law!”

“You have to take off all your clothes, loser,” Athos turned towards Aramis with a shit-eating grin.

Aramis muttered something unintelligible, which may have been some kind of a pagan curse, and began to slowly and methodically remove his clothes, starting with his penny-loafers, which Athos thought would not look out of place on a murder spree. He folded each article of clothing with meticulous care and set them neatly aside, until all that remained on him were his white boxer briefs and a little golden crucifix which dangled on a tasteful chain against his breastbone.

“Happy now?” Aramis asked Porthos but it was Athos who emitted a rather unseemly noise of agreement.

“Sorry,” he quickly stammered. “The tequila just went down the wrong pipe.” Right, because _that_ made it sound entirely innocent.

“Let’s keep playing,” Porthos ordered, pushing the pile of cards towards Aramis for shuffling. “Athos still has his shirt on.”

“So do you!” Athos exclaimed. “And everything else! You’re the most dressed person in the room! Son included!” The kitten stared at him, then tried to burrow underneath Aramis’ semi-exposed ass.

“All the more reason to keep playing.” Porthos stretched and took a long, appreciative sip of the tequila. “This is fucking good shit, man.”

“Oh, thanks for noticing,” Athos muttered and emptied his own glass down his gullet. His head was beginning to formulate that pleasant buzz that you get from really pure liquor, a warmth spread through his limbs, all the way down to the tips of his toes.

“Don’t be such a sourpus, Aramis,” Porthos chided as he refilled the doctor’s drink. “Shuffle up. Besides, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about while we’re all here.” Athos perked up his ears while Aramis gave him a rather expressive look. “I have a very dear friend who is about to become a widow,” Porthos said grimly.

“Go on,” Aramis said, steepling the cards between his hands and letting them shuffle down with a pleasant susurration.

“I thought you might know of a place that her soon to be departed husband could be um… kept, while he departs. And then depart him.”

Athos froze with his glass half-way to his lips, shifting his eyes to Aramis. His naked shoulder appeared to glisten alluringly in the light cast from the fireplace.

“I can see about moving him to the top of the waitlist,” Aramis said casually as he dealt the next hand. “Of course, such accommodations are not without cost. Can your… friend… pay?”

“She is a very dear friend,” Porthos repeated, “and she will come into quite the inheritance once she is widowed. I thought, in the meantime, Athos could be a pal and bankroll the arrangements. Hm?”

Now Athos truly did choke on his tequila. There was a scuffle while Aramis offered to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him and Son dashed out of the room like the fickle creature that he was. Athos finished coughing and attempted to make words emerge from the tequila-fog that had descended onto his brain.

“Now you would make me an accessory on top of everything else?” Athos asked.

“An accessory? To what?”

“I’m not sure. Kidnapping? False imprisonment? Murder?” Athos listed off. “Just off the top of my head?”

“I assure you, this man is very old and very decrepit. I would never ask you to do anything illegal! Tell him, Aramis.”

“To live with dignity - to die with dignity,” Aramis quoted the motto of Dignitas somberly.

“Fine, I’ll…” Athos could not believe after everything he’s been through with the boating incident, and the Embarrassment, and just his entire dubiously spent youth, he was about to do this too. “I’ll give you the money. I’m sure my accountant can call it a charitable donation or something. Fuck it.”

“There are, of course, procedures to follow,” Aramis said as he picked up his next hand of cards. “I would need to meet with the patient twice before providing a provisional green light, of course. And all the correspondence would need to be handled in writing. Through his email account.”

“Which no one but him has access to, gotcha, gotcha,” Porthos nodded sagely and examined his own hand.

Athos shut his eyes and refused to look at anything at all. Especially not the way Aramis’ lats flowed smoothly into the well-defined musculature of the rest of his back. Or at his butt dimples, now clearly visible above the waistband of his briefs, Lord help him.

“Aramis, you might as well fold,” Porthos drawled. “You have nothing else to take off except your tighty-whities and your creepy necklace.”

“But I actually have a good hand,” Aramis frowned. He placed down one of his cards and drew up. “Athos? You playing?”

Athos finally looked at his cards and asked to exchange three, while Porthos topped off his and Aramis’ glasses. There was nothing else to do. His hand was terrible. He shot back the full glass of tequila and hung his head in shame.

“Hubris, Porthos,” Aramis was saying. “Someone needs to take you down a notch. And if not me, then who?”

“Not me,” Athos said, setting his cards aside.

“Oh come on!” Porthos protested.

“I wager my underwear,” Aramis said.

“Dude, don’t do it,” Athos drawled out drunkenly. He was a man of principles, but Aramis was in real danger of a #HimToo.

“I wager MY underwear,” Porthos said with a loud laugh.

“No, man, no one wants to see your underwear,” Athos protested weakly.

Aramis emptied his glass. “I also wager expediting your friend’s husband’s dignified passing if you beat me.”

“There’s no turning back from that,” Athos said and shut his eyes in terror.

“I’ll see that wager,” Porthos smiled, “And I’ll give you a free get out of jail card if _you_ win.”

“Put your money where your mouth is, big boy,” Aramis said with an eyebrow wiggle. “A straight flush! Boom!”

Athos opened his eyes.

“Very nice, Aramis, very nice,” Porthos was saying as he examined the good doctor’s cards. “Unfortunately, we all know that a royal flush beats a straight flush. So sorry and buh-bye!”

“Unbelievable!” Aramis rose from his seat as if rearing for a fight.

“Yeah, well,” Porthos rose too and pushed the slender man’s form back down onto the couch. “Sit down. You lost. I’ll be taking your panties.”

“Oh god,” Athos threw his arm across his brow, not trusting his eyes to remain closed of their own accord.

“In fact,” Porthos said as he rummaged through Aramis’ neatly disposed clothes. “I’ll be taking your car keys too. You are _definitely_ too drunk to drive. I’ll just leave you here in Athos’ good care, shall I?”

“Don’t you dare fucking leave!” Athos protested weakly from the cushions.

“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure as always. I’ll be in touch.” Porthos saluted, and then, like a fucking asshole, walked out the door while twirling Aramis’ briefs around his index finger.

***

“What just happened?” Athos heard Aramis’ voice.

They’d been fucking parent-trapped, that’s what. He unleashed a groan, but only inside his own skull, where it echoed back at him like the ghosts of all his bad decisions. Porthos the yenta had apparently decided that with all that alcohol in his system, Athos would clearly have no impulse control, and then left Aramis to his “care” like Andromeda all trussed up for the Devouring.

“We’ve just been in the company of a Very Bad Man,” Athos explained, rolling off the couch and rummaging in the nearby hope chest for a blanket. “Here,” he said ruefully. “A modesty blanket for you.”

“Please tell me he totally cheated,” Aramis stated, his legs apart and hands on his hips like some kind of a military-themed porno that Athos would’ve gladly watched on any other night.

“_That’s_ your big concern?” Athos’ eyes widened. “Not that I’m going to… to… deflower you?”

“I hate to tell you, Attila, but that ship has long sailed.”

Athos didn’t understand why Aramis didn’t look more miserable. Perhaps he’d been drunker than Athos thought? He was more light boned and unlikely as practiced in that fine art as Athos himself.

“Well?” Aramis said, as he took the blanket from Athos and casually slung it over his shoulder, which affected to hide nothing at all, but did contribute to making him look like a caveman, thus doing fuck all to dispel Athos’ growing erection. “_Are_ you going to deflower me?”

Athos sputtered and drew another blanket from the hope chest, wrapping it around his own midline. “I’m… No! I would never take advantage of you while you’re drunk and naked like that!”

“But, just for the record, if I weren’t drunk and naked…?”

Athos sighed and looked a bit helplessly around the room. “Stop mocking me. I’m not just here for your amusement,” he finally said. “Come on. I’ll show you to one of the guestrooms.”

Aramis muttered something else behind his back, which again sounded like some kind of a wiccan incantation. At least they hadn’t mixed the tequila with any other liquor, so everything should make more sense in the morning. He would tell Grimaud to wash and press Aramis’ clothes. He might even lend him some underwear. They will have breakfast. Athos will give him a ride back home. And then, in the near future, all three of them may or may not murder a man for his money and/or widow. It would all be fine.

He wasn’t even sure where Son was anymore, but he would find his way to Athos’ head soon enough. Athos opened the door to the guestroom that was directly across the hall from his own bedroom. “The closest toilet is through there,” he motioned down the hall. “And I sleep over there,” he pointed with his thumb behind them. “And sorry again about Porthos being such an asshole.”

“It’s not your fault,” Aramis replied with one of his cryptic smiles.

“Have a good night,” Athos added. “You’re very fucking hot.”

“What’s that?”

“I said that room gets really hot.”

“Oh, I’ll crack a window open, I suppose?”

“Yeah, you… you do that…” Athos backed slowly away from the naked man before he said anything worse. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” Aramis waved from the doorway.

Athos wanted to throw himself down the stairs. With suicide rates so high in Switzerland, he was sure no one would even bat an eyelash. Besides, between the Embarrassment and now this, it might be the only honorable option left to him. It was hard enough living in a country where your citizenship could be denied if the neighbors found you annoying. How was he supposed to go on existing while Aramis was out there, looking like _that_?

There was still no sign of Son, so Athos quietly retreated to his own room, leaving the door slightly ajar for his errant progeny and, quickly divesting himself of the rest of his clothes, collapsed into his bed. He would’ve prayed for sleep had he been a praying man. He closed his eyes and allowed the pleasant warmth of the tequila keep him company while he began the slow and steady descent into that state that was neither sleep nor wakefulness, where unwelcome thoughts mixed with idle fantasy and the after-affects of alcohol.

Despite the heaviness in his head and his limbs, Athos startled, peripherally aware of a sudden shift in the darkness around him. Had he fallen asleep after all? He wondered what time it was when something furry plopped onto the pillow next to him.

“What the…”

“Hey,” a voice said.

“Son?” Athos rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

“He got lost and was meowing like crazy,” the voice, in which Athos finally recognized Aramis, explained. “I thought I’d bring him back. Here, let me just slip him under the covers for you.”

Before Athos could protest and explain that Son preferred his head to sleeping under the covers, his duvet was pulled up and Aramis slipped himself into his bed instead.

“Um…!” Athos squawked in a panic. There was probably an embarrassing boner under there somewhere, and Aramis would have to be daft not to find it.

“You are such a liar, by the way? That room is fucking cold. And you’re warm. I’m going to warm myself over here for a while.”

“I’m…”

“Naked?” Aramis wrapped himself around his torso like a friendly koala. His feet and hands did indeed feel rather cold. “Oh my god, you sleep naked? How primal. Mmm, you’re really warm.”

“God help me,” Athos muttered under his breath. Perhaps he was becoming a praying man after all. “What are you doing?” he asked gently. “Are you sleepwalking? Is that what this is? Because I’ve seen _La Sonnambula_, and I know it’s not okay to take advantage of sleeping people.”

“Because everything you know you’ve learned from the Opera?” Aramis honest to goodness giggled and pressed closer. “I don’t think I’m drunk anymore,” he purred into Athos’ ear.

“Then perhaps you can explain to me why we’re doing naked cuddles right now?” Athos asked.

“Because, you genius, I have decided to take matters into my own hands.” By ‘matters’ Aramis clearly meant Athos’ arse because that’s what he squeezed with his hands. Athos moaned and shut his eyes. “That’s better. Clearly, it was no use waiting for you to make the move, and someone had to.”

“What are you even talking about?” Athos began to say when Aramis’ finger pressed against his mouth to hush him. Then the finger dipped and slipped between his lips and Athos moaned helplessly around it.

“Why do you insist on playing these games with me?” Aramis whispered, chasing his finger with his own lips until their mouths languidly pressed against each other without going any further. “Surely, you must have figured out by now that I want you. And I know, despite your most stoic efforts, that you want me too.”

“You... want me?” Athos exhaled against Aramis’ lips.

“Of course I do. Really, how much more obvious do I have to be about it?” Athos opened his mouth, but Aramis insisted, “Don’t answer that.”

Athos shut his mouth, then opened it again to surrender to the pressure of Aramis’ lips, to let his tongue slide in just far enough to make the kiss interesting. He allowed his own arm to circle Aramis’ slender waist, pulling him in tight enough to feel the mirror image of his own erection stabbing against him. He nipped gently at Aramis’ lips, then trailed his mouth to his chin, drunk with excitement at being suddenly allowed to do this, nibbled alongside the ridge of his sharp jaw and, finally, clamped his teeth on the tender earlobe, sucking it into his mouth like a berry.

“You just insisted on driving me crazy, didn’t you?” Aramis’ voice had gone deep and hoarse in the darkness while Athos’ hand found his engorged cock and gave it a few tentative strokes. “Showing up on that road, looking like some debauched dream? Then having me for tea without even bothering to put your shirt on? Do you even know how fine you are? With those rippling abs and those perky nips? Then you had to be the absolute _worst_ at flirting? The most obtuse man in the world when I caressed your fucking thigh and shoved my face into your crotch?” With each stroke of Athos’ hand, Aramis found another accusation to moan into Athos’ panting mouth. “I asked to see your tongue for Christ’s sakes! Why do you think I gave you the cat in the first place, you fucking idiot?”

Now Athos had taken both their cocks into the palm of his hand and was beginning to work them in tandem while Aramis squirmed against him in arousal and exasperation.

“Make me come, you giant fucking tease,” Aramis gasped, his mouth latching onto the column of Athos’ neck, leaving what would surely be an angry bruise there for Grimaud to snicker at in the morning.

“I thought…” Athos tried to speak through rasping breaths. “I thought… you liked… girls.”

“Do you think you’re the only bisexual in the bloody universe!” Aramis shouted just as he threw his head back, his long neck flashing white in the darkness like a dove, and began to pulse in Athos’ grip coating his hand and both their cocks in tacky spurts.

Before Athos even registered the desire to lick his fingers clean, Aramis was sliding down his body, swallowing his cock down in one expert swoop. Athos almost felt guilty; the poor boy had been gagging for it all along and he'd been so oblivious! His concerns about the deflowerment had truly been for naught, Athos thought, just as he began to unload down Aramis’ throat like a man who hasn’t been allowed to nut for years.

Athos swam in post-coital bliss while Aramis’ mouth traveled up, peppering soft kisses along his abdomen and his perspiration-coated chest. “I hope we haven’t traumatized Son,” Aramis whispered, sealing their lips together again. “He is the only innocent party in all this.”

“I’m sorry, kitten,” Athos whispered, his body already slipping back into the comforting embrace of sleep.

“Yeah, you better be,” Aramis purred as he nuzzled into his neck.

***

As far as his plans went, Athos was pleased to find this one had gone off almost without a hitch. He did tell Grimaud to clean and press Aramis’ clothes. He did _not_, in fact, lend him any underwear, finding such excesses really unnecessary under the new circumstances. They did somehow manage to have breakfast, in bed, using each other’s bodies as both tablecloths and utensils. And then Athos gave Aramis a ride all right, though maybe not quite all the way back home.

They might still all end up murdering a man in the future, he figured, so he wasn’t that far off in his suppositions the previous night.

“So, anyways, this is the servants’ wing,” Athos was saying, while giving a freshly bathed Aramis a tour of the château. “I suppose there used to be quite a few servants, back in the day, but…”

“They were eaten,” Aramis suggested smoothly.

“What? No! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Athos pulled Aramis in by the nape of his neck. Before he forgot what he was actually going to say, “But now all I really need is Grimaud, since I live here alone.”

“Oh?”

“Oh,” Athos confirmed and pressed his mouth to Aramis’. He’d wanted to do this for so long, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop. Even if it was suddenly discovered that Aramis had somehow hailed from the British Isles.

They had wandered dangerously close to the kitchen, which had historically been strictly off limits to Athos. Grimaud didn’t cook his food, of course, having it imported from a local chef, who specialized in feeding gourmande locavores. Still, it was a domain Athos did not wish to traverse. _Hic sunt dracones._

“So you see, Son,” Grimaud’s voice carried from the kitchen along with the popping sound of a can of tuna being opened. “Sometimes your daddy doesn’t know what’s good for him. I mean, he brought you home, and you’re good…”

Athos was about to say something but Aramis shushed him with his own mouth again.

“Yes, you’re a very good boy!” the majordomo cooed. “But sometimes, he brings home crafty murderous abominations, like your Uncle Aramis.”

Athos disengaged from the kiss. “I’ll show him a murderous abomination!”

Aramis’ hand steered him back towards himself by deftly maneuvering his bulge like a joystick. “Leave it alone, babe,” he smiled. “Why don’t you show me your barn instead?”

Aramis winked.

It would all be fine.

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> Please feed me comments, it's been a rough year. I hope this made yours slightly better!


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